


When In Spain

by heckasketchy



Category: The 100
Genre: F/F, based off one of those tumblr otp prompts, i tried to be cute but I don't know what happened or what it is so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 23:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6097213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckasketchy/pseuds/heckasketchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke, Raven, and Octavia take a summer trip to Spain. What kind of friends would they be if they didn't leave their non-Spanish-speaking friend in the middle of a random town?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When In Spain

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't technically finished, and I'm sorry for that, but I know I won't write anymore than I have so have what I have, I guess.

Literally fuck this country and fuck this trip and fuck her friends and her ridiculously hot tour guide.

 

Fuck it all.

 

Clarke realizes a bit too late that an impromptu trip Spain was not the best of ideas when one doesn't speak Spanish. Or know the country. Or has idiot friends who will leave them in the middle of fucking nowhere when they _know_ they're the only ones who speak the language.

 

Again, _fuck it all_.

 

Okay, so technically she isn't in the middle of _nowhere_ (it's actually a quaint little town, and the park where she lost her idiot friends is just a block or two behind her) but she doesn't know where she is and she _doesn't speak the language_. People pass her on the street and she tries her best to stop them and act out what she wants.

 

You’d be surprised at how idiotic she looks. Think “monkey”. Now think “monkey who knows nothing about the environment they’ve been stuck in”. Now put a blonde wig on it.

 

Perfect.

 

After the tenth person walks away from her, murmuring some excuse in their native tongue and their eyes wide, Clarke's shoulders slump. Her mouth is dry (she's been walking these twisted streets for a little over an hour without water and she's dying) so she crosses the street to a building with two words she understands by heart: Bar and Cafeteria.

 

The building is small, dingy, and dark, with the scripted words _Casa Maria_ painted blue on a yellow sign. Looking around, Clarke gets a sports-bar-ish feel. Various soccer team emblems and flags litter the triangular space and a bar expands the entire right side. Only two people besides herself are there; one is a heavier man with tattoos lining both tanned arms and a long beard going down his chest and the other is a long-haired brunette with braids and a half-pony scooping wild hair away from her angled face.

 

Clarke is so enamored with how the bar lights reflect and brighten the girl's tanned skin, she doesn't hear the shrill ding welcome her entrance. Bright green eyes meet hers and she's dumbfounded for a solid second before she breaks eye contact and moves to the bar, the tender's eyes digging into her all the while. She collapses into a stool, dropping her pack onto the floor.

 

"You probably don't understand me but I need something to drink. Something strong." She makes a drinking motion with her hand and the bartender smiles before bringing her a tall glass of water.

 

"This is not what I wanted but at this point I don't even care." She sips the water and watches a recap on a soccer game on the television above the bar. She can't understand fucking anything and _god_ she's so pissed.

 

Angry, she finishes her water and slams the glass down, glaring at the bartender. The woman looks at her with a slight smile and raised eyebrow. “I need something stronger. Fuck, what is it?” She snaps her fingers like it will help her remember the words. “You’d think with as much as I drink, I’d know the damn name,” she mutters, the bartender’s face unmoving. Her fingers still and she looks the bartender in the eye. “I probably look like a giant idiot, don’t I?”

 

The bartender doesn’t respond and though Clarke isn’t surprised, she’s still slams her forehead to the dark wood of the bar with a groan. “I just don’t get it. They know I don’t speak Spanish. They know I have no fucking clue how to get back to the hotel.” She lifts her head and the bartender swallows a giggle at the red circle that’s formed on the blonde’s forehead. “Why the fuck would they just leave me in the middle of the park?” The woman in front of her adopts a sympathetic yet wary look before gesturing to a bottle of amber liquid behind her. “God yes, thank you.” She nods furiously and reaches her hand out like a child. The shot glass is placed in front of her and she downs it in one go. Before she can open her mouth to speak again, a glass beside her is slammed upon the bar. She jumps, much to the amusement of both the bartender and the tattooed biker-dude.

 

" _Ella está molestándote_?" His voice is gruff in Clarke's ear and she feels his body heat radiating onto her back.

 

The bartender simply shakes her head, her eyes falling away from Clarke for the first time since she's walked into the bar. " _No, Gustus, estoy bien_." She rushes a few more words out before shooing him away, and he lumbers out of the door with a gruff response.

 

"Man, he was fucking _huge_ ." Clarke lets out a breath and relaxes onto the bar while holding out her empty glass to the bartender. As the woman turns to grab the bottle, Clarke notices the spiralling black tattoo upon the girl’s arm. "Does everyone in this shitty-ass country have cool tattoos or what because everyone I've seen around here has one and I'm not complaining but seriously." At first, she's embarrassed by her rambling, but when she's met a silent smile and another shot of whiskey, she realizes how freeing it is to talk to someone and not expect an answer. "Our tour guide, right - because at least _someone_ was fucking smart enough not to let us roam Spain without some form of guidance," she takes a sip, "has this weird tribal thing along his back, shoulder to shoulder. I only know this 'cause I've done him and if Raven ever found out about that she'd fucking kill me." The woman turns her back to Clarke as she takes another sip. "I mean, Raven's been trying to get this dude to do her sideways for a fucking week, you know, and I got him down in three days, tops."

 

Green eyes meet hers again and the fire settled in them strike Clarke silent, but the bartender simply grabs the glass left there by Gustus and washes it clean.

 

After a moment of silence where Clarke's head sways, she mutters, "Do you know how pretty you are?" The woman looks at her before looking away and returning to her task. Clarke rests her head in her palm as she leans onto the bar with her elbow. "Seriously though. It's like looking at you will turn me into stone or something. Like reverse-Medusa or something." Bartender Lady bites her lips, turns, and walks away, her backside taking Clarke's eyes with it. As she finally processes her own words, she cringes. "Wait did I really just say that? It's a good thing you can't understand me or else this would be really embarrassing."

 

"It really would be."

 

If it weren't for the heavy accent that accompanied the words, Clarke might've thought she imagined the words.

 

 _You know what? Fuck everything. Fuck this town, fuck this trip, fuck my stupid ass friends, and - more importantly - fuck me and my big, stupid mouth and my slow, stupid brain and just_ fucking everything.

 

Her hand and mouth both drop as she stare at the woman who, amazingly, looks like she hasn't entirely torn Clarke apart. “You speak English.” It isn’t a question. There’s no reason for it to be. If anything, it’s just easier for Clarke to believe it if she says it aloud.

 

“Fluently.” The woman’s not facing Clarke, and she can’t tell if she’s happier without seeing the rather bored look on the woman’s face or not. She's busy doing something with her hands, maybe cleaning Biker-Dude's glass, and Clarke is now glad for the reprieve of the woman's eyes on her.

 

"So..." She tears her eyes away from the bartender and wallows in her embarrassment for a moment. "What, um," she swallows. "What's your name?"

 

"Lexa." It's curt and Clarke's face is hot and she's so _freaking_ stupid.

 

"Lexa." The woman's name feels nice in her mouth, even past the lump in her throat. "That's a pretty name."

 

"So I've heard."

 

"I feel like I've fucked up."

 

The bartender turns with a smile too wide for the occasion. "Now why would you think that?"

 

Clarke’s face remains neutral as she replies with, “Because I’ve obviously fucked up.”

 

“Well, you did kind of piss on my home country.” Lexa grabs Clarke’s empty shot glass and replaces it with water. “To think I saved you from getting thrown out of here.”

 

“I also said you were pretty.” Clarke sinks further onto the bar. “Biker-Dude was gonna throw me out?” Lexa hums. “And I thought his tattoos were cool.”

 

The only thing alluding to the amusement of the bartender was a pursing of her lips and the tensing of her jaw. “ _Biker-Dude’s_ name is Gustus. He’s a good friend of my father’s.”

 

“Ah, bonding. See, this is good.” Clarke plays with her water instead of drinking it. “If we’re gonna to that, my name is Clarke.”

 

Lexa seemed to play with the words for a bit before leaning on the rail behind her. “Clarke, the self-entitled American with no respect for other people’s countries and cultures. Good to know.” Though the woman’s face was harsh, her eyes danced with mirth.

 

“Was that a joke?” Clarke’s eyes ran over Lexa yet again, not bothering to hide it. “The stoic bartender can kid around.”

 

“Just because I said it happily doesn’t mean it was a joke.” She fingers her pockets and avoids Clarke’s eyes.

 

“But it was.”

 

They sit in silence for a while with the announcer on the T.V. above them rambles on. Clarke finishes about half of her water before asking, “So, what are they saying?”

 

“That you should’ve taken Spanish in high school.” Clarke lets out a chuckle.

 

“Bad thing is, I did.”

 

Lexa’s eyes finally fall back onto her. “And you still can’t understand anything?”

 

“Nope.” She shrugs and looks back at the television. “I’m more of an art nerd.”

 

“Language _is_ art, Clarke.” Lexa approaches her slowly, a small smile adorning her lips. “Have you ever read a poem so beautiful it took your breath away? Or heard a song that sent shivers down your spine? You say you love art, but you’re only focusing on one facet of it.” Clarke only looks on with an empty look and a smile that’s quickly fading. Lexa leans onto the bar, pulling out her sweetest smile. “You paint with brushes.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” She can almost think through Lexa’s grin. She can almost defend her lifestyle. Almost.

 

“You’re right, but just let me say this,” she gets close, enough so that Clarke can smell her shampoo.

 

“ _Que en mi amorosa pasión_

_no fue desuido, ni mengua,_

_quitar el uso a la lengua_

_por dárselo al corazón._

 

_Ni de explicarme dejaba:_

_que, como la pasión mía_

_acá en el alma te vía,_

_acá en el alma te hablaba_.”

 

 

Clarke is silent, but her eyes scream at Lexa. Mainly just their fixed position on Lexa’s lips.

 

“I don’t know what you just said.”

 

“Maybe I could teach you sometime.” A sharp wink draws Clarke out of her stupor. A slow smile rises on Clarke’s lips and her fingers spread on the bar to graze Lexa’s.

 

“I think I could maybe take you up on that offer, Lexa.”

**Author's Note:**

> Poem is "My Lady" by Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz.


End file.
